


What's-His-Name

by beetle



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Post-Chosen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years in Africa, Xander’s back in the States; and he’s not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's-His-Name

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Set post-Chosen. Mention of NON-CON.

Naked and sitting on the edge of the bed, Xander sighs, still unable to look What’s-his-name in the face.  
  
“I am so sorry,” he says, for what feels like the zillionth time. And for the longest while, there’s no response, only the whisper-hiss of rustled sheets and deep, unsteady breaths.  
  
“Yeah, you’re sorry, I’m sorry--the whole fuckin’  _world’s_  sorry, man.” What’s-his-name doesn’t sound angry or frightened anymore, just numb. His voice is raspy, cracks on every other word.   
  
On Xander’s night-table is a battered King James Bible. It’s covered in a fine layer of dust. If there’s a moral to be drawn from this image, Xander’s no longer moral enough to draw it. He’s starting to doubt he ever was.   
  
So he closes his eyes and listens to the thing living in his head laugh.  
  
When he opens them, the Bible is still dusty and accusing and Xander  _knows_  that if he turned and looked, he’d already see the beginnings of bruises on What’s-his-name’s throat.  
  
Bruises in the shape of his own hands.  
  
But it sounds like What’s-his-name is pulling his shit together surprisingly quick--the skin-tight jeans, black mesh shirt and scuffed motorcycle boots--without fumbling or double checking that they’re on straight.  
  
“Are you--” God, Xander feels stupid and hypocritical asking this, but how much worse will he feel later if he doesn’t ask now? “Are you gonna be okay?”  
  
A snort and the flick of a lighter, quickly followed by the smell of smoke. The same, cheap brand Spike had smoked practically till Sunnydale swallowed him up.   
  
“I’ll be fine once the bleeding stops.”  
  
“Oh . . . oh, God. . . .” Xander buries his face in his hands. His brain is still buzzing excitedly, all yips and excited laughter, but his heart--his fucking  _conscience_ \--  
  
Is still MIA, it seems.   
  
Xander feels that absence of guilt keenly. It shames him, as does the loss of control. Which is getting worse it seems, not better. Leaving Africa, it seems, had only sped up up his . . . degeneration.  
  
But this . . .  _thing_  he’s done--this awful night . . . surely this is the worst of it, right? There’s no way he could feel any guiltier, or sink any lower, right? This, at last, has to be rock-bottom?  
  
Nothing from that spot inside, the one where the pious cricket that is morality gives jingle-y advice to all good little boys. Nope, just laughter that echoes ever louder, until it’s all Xander hears sometimes. Drowning out reason and sanity and his sense of self.  
  
Drowning out  _stop_.  
  
“Please, no . . . it’s not me,” Xander murmurs, the words swallowed by his hands.  
  
“Xander?”   
  
What’s-his-name’s the first person who’s called him  _Xander_  since Africa and for a moment, he  _feels_  like Xander, instead of like some malfunctioning pod-person. He understands what’s been happening to him, and just how far he’s fallen, in so short a time.  
  
It’s this last, lingering vestige of who he once was that forces him to look up, look around. Look What’s-his-name in the eye. He sees fear, disgust and pain there, and he knows he’s the cause of it.  
  
He sees a long, pale neck, ringed with purpling bruises and contusions.  
  
He knows he’s the cause of  _that_ , and it’s enough to send what’s left of the man he was scurrying deeper inward, leaving a shame and laughter-filled shell to deal with this mess.  
  
“I should call the cops on you,” What’s-his-name says softly in that raspy, wounded voice. Three hours ago, in the bar, that voice had been the sexiest thing Xander had ever heard; now it’s just a reminder, like the bruises, like the haunted blue eyes.  
  
 _You’re losing yourself,_  that inner-Xander whispers, barely audible over the laughter in his head.   
  
 _No, I’m still me. I'm fine,_  Xander thinks to that self--lies to that self, fingers unconsciously going to his temples to rub away the pain, the laughter.  
  
“You were hurting me and you wouldn’t stop. I could have you thrown in jail.”  
  
“Sor--”  
  
“Shut up!” A flare of rage that’s soon gone. What’s-his-name lifts a shaking hand up as if to run it through his sandy-colored curls, but stops halfway, the cigarette leaving smoke-trails in the air.  
  
“God help me, Xander, and God help  _you_ ,” What’s-his-name says in a small, confused voice. Xander almost apologizes again, this time for not being more familiar with What’s-his-name’s particular God.   
  
But is it Xander’s fault the Harrises were Easter/Christmas Presbyterians? Probably not. And is it Xander's fault the cleaning ladies can’t swish a fucking dust-rag over that damn Bible so maybe he’d  _wanna_  read it?  
  
Maybe if he left them a tip. . . .   
  
The frank, frightened look What’s-his-name is giving him kills off the comforting string of brain-babble.  
  
“You know--your eyes changed color while you were--and you growled, like some kinda animal. I’ve got scratches and bites on me like I just went twelve rounds with a junkyard dog.  
  
“And when I told you to stop--when I  _asked_  you to stop--” What’s-his-name wipes away three tears as quickly as they fall. “When I said you you were hurting me and to please stop, you just laughed . . . like I said the funniest thing in the world.”   
  
What’s-his-name grimaces--or maybe it's the only kind of smile he's capable of, at this moment.  
  
“I wanna punish you for that. Make you hurt, make you helpless, make you cry. But whatever’s wrong with you, whatever’s  _in_  you--eating you alive. . . .” What’s-his-name’s swollen lips curve a little more; his smile turns genuine and cold. “Whatever it is, it’s apparently taking care of that for me.”  
  
“Look, Sam--”  
  
“It’s Sean.” What’s-his-name,  _Sean_ , doesn’t seem at all surprised that Xander has forgotten his name. “Remember that: the guy who said  _stop_  and  _no_ , like, a million times and you just kept fucking him anyway? His name was Sean.”  
  
There’s nothing to say to that but sorry. So Xander says it. Again.  
  
Sean takes a deep, shuddery drag on his cigarette and puts it out on the scarred motel dresser. “Whatever. I hope the next guy cuts your dick off.”  
  
Xander looks away, back down at his hands again. In seconds, they’re covered in tears.   
  
The door to his motel room slams open, then slams shut.  
  
On his night-table, the Bible still accuses him, still calls to the drowned-out cricket inside him. But he can’t make out what bug or book are saying. All he can hear is the hyena . . . laughing at him.  
  
“I am so sorry, Sean,” he says, over and over. But it’s not enough. It never will be.


End file.
